


Dagger to the Heart (Wrath)

by myrish_lace



Series: Seven Deadly Sins - Jonsa [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst and Feels, Confessions, Cousin Incest, Cunnilingus, Eavesdropping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasizing, Half-Sibling Incest, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow is King in the North, Masturbation, Minor Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, POV Multiple, R plus L equals J, Scheming, Voyeurism, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Sansa Stark is scheming with Littlefinger to attempt to force Jon with into a sexual indiscretion with her, so she can use it as blackmail to secure her position at Winterfell. Sansa is frustrated that Jon didn't fully understand the implications of assuming the title of King in the North - most significantly, that he'd be taking away the claim she had to Winterfell itself.She finds, as time goes on, that it's difficult for her to attempt to seduce Jon, and the two grow closer together despite Sansa and LIttlefinger's plot. Their budding relationship has serious consequences. Told from multiple points of view.I've separated this into three chapters for easier reading (thanks vivilove)!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> myrish_lace would like to give a huge shout-out to alittlestardustcaught for being an amazing beta reader and source of inspiration and support for this fic!

**Sansa**

“The King in the North! The King in the North!”

Jon didn’t want to do this. One glance at his face had told Sansa that. He rose, looking at her as he did, before letting the yoke settle on his shoulders. Wordlessly, Jon had asked her for permission, and maybe also for a way out.

Instead she’d smiled at Jon. She’d nodded and been proud of him. She’d looked at him fondly as the hall filled with the sound of men rattling swords, sealing their bargain with a show of bravery.

It ate at her though, how Lady Lyanna Mormont – who’d scorned her and her claim – had crowned Jon king.

Just as it ate at her that Jon hadn’t thought it through. He hadn’t realized that by becoming King in the North, he’d cut off her claim to Winterfell. Even though she was the one who had won back their home.

“None of them would be here if it wasn’t for you, sweetling,” Littlefinger had murmured in her ear before she left that room.

As much as she despised him, she knew he was right.

Her capacity for fury had grown since Ramsay had died at her command. Sansa wanted a castle, a keep of her own. She’d earned it, paid for it bitterly in blood and tears, and now there were those who looked at her like she was an obstacle in Jon’s way.

She heard the low voices that spoke of how much more... _straightforward_ things would be if she were gone. Perhaps packed off to the Vale? Out of the King’s way, in any event. Lord Baelish was often offered up as a candidate for her husband.

Bile rose in her throat at the idea.

But she had used his army. She’d written to him. She’d needed him, to ensure a victory, because Jon – Jon refused to listen to her, even though she’d been right.

Sansa fumed. Would Jon ever stop seeing her as a girl with songs and stories in her head? By the way he'd left Ramsay for her to kill, she'd thought that he understood that she'd changed.

Then he’d taken up the mantle of king, and snatched Winterfell away from her.

 _Perhaps he wants it for himself_ , a traitorous voice whispered in her head.

Deep down, she didn’t think that was true. Jon was kind.  _He gave me the Lord’s Chambers. He calls me the Lady of Winterfell_.

And none of that was enough for her.

Littlefinger knew it too. Soon after Jon had been made king, he had found her and asked her to dine with him, loudly and clearly enough that she couldn’t refuse.

She dressed carefully for the meal. Littlefinger liked her to look young, and to wear her hair like her lady mother. She donned a simple lavender gown, demure and enticing at the same time. Littlefinger could be played too.

Littlefinger was wearing a green doublet slashed with silver when he opened the door. He ushered her into his chambers and neatly poured them both wine. “You look lovely tonight, my dear.”

Sansa gritted her teeth. “Thank you, Lord Baelish,” she said sweetly.

“There’s no need for formalities between us, sweetling. Petyr, please, when it’s just the two of us.”

Littlefinger rested a hand on her knee. Sansa’s skin crawled. She needed Littlefinger happy, at least for now. She might need him bleeding on the ground later, but for now she lowered her eyelashes.

“Petyr.” There was the encouragement he needed. His face had a hungry look. Sansa wondered if he knew how much he gave away during these meetings, thanks to his own lust.

“We must discuss how you can use Jon's weakness to your advantage.”

Sansa let Littlefinger's suggestion hang in the air as she tucked into her kidney pie. She’d learned that silence made Littlefinger uncomfortable.

“...he wants you, Sansa. You’re far too smart and far too experienced with men not to know that.”

Her fury roared to life. She knew about the ways of men because Littlefinger had made an advantageous bargain that left her in the hands of a vile monster.

“Perhaps,” she said mildly.

She wasn’t sure if Jon lusted after her. His eyes told one story and his actions another. That threw her off-balance. She’d learned that men took what they wanted, when they wanted, with no regard for her.

Apart from Lord Tyrion....she shook her head to clear it. That had been pity for a child. She wasn’t a child any longer. 

"There’s no ‘perhaps’ here, sweet girl. He's a man and he has eyes.”

Sansa took a delicate bite of cake. It wasn't lost on her how Littlefinger's gaze lingered on her lips.

"He's my half-brother, Petyr."

Littlefinger gave her a predatory grin. “Being your half-brother won't change his body's desires.”

Sansa merely looked at him coolly. She could wait all night if she needed to.

“Surely you see the opportunity," Littlefinger said after a moment. “Seduce him. Catch him in an indiscretion. Then you can hold his failing over his head. You can bargain for more.” Littlefinger patted his beard with a napkin. “Perhaps for Winterfell itself.”

"Jon might offer me Winterfell, if I asked." She wasn't sure if he would but she thought it was possible. Jon cared about her.

And she wasn't sure how she felt about trying to seduce Jon. She should find the thought abhorrent. But having lived through King's Landing and Ramsay, she was indifferent to most kinds of shame.  Or told herself she was. 

Littlefinger smiled. "He might, dear child. You're right. He's foolish enough and honorable enough. But can you hold him to it? You'd be asking Jon to give up his seat of power. To be a beggar king of sorts. To stand down for a woman's claim."

"He might not see it that way."

"And that's part of the problem, isn't it? He doesn't see the whole picture. He's not like us."

 _We're nothing alike_ , she thought fiercely. But she shifted uneasily in her chair. Here she was, plotting with him. And Jon hadn't thought it through.

"Well, a yes is a yes, isn't it, Petyr? If I can get him to agree, why bother with an indiscretion?"

"There's risk in a 'yes' for him, Sansa. His lords might see how unwise it is. Might convince him to take it back. But secrets – secrets are power. Especially to a man as hobbled by honor as your half-brother. If he feels he's violated you..."

Littlefinger’s eyes gleamed, and Sansa hid her shudder by pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"If he feels he's mistreated you then he'll do anything he can, beyond the point of reason, to make it better. Even if it's not in his best interest. You need a dagger at his throat, darling."

Sansa gave him the slightest of nods. It did sound...safer, more certain. Distasteful and cruel. But then again, cruelty was hardly a novelty to her.

Littlefinger took her nod as permission to continue. “After you’ve seduced him, after you’ve used his lust to get him where you want – then run, sweetling. Don't pretend to return his affection. Run.”

Sansa smiled pleasantly. The idea was appalling to her. Why should she run from a man again?

“And once I’ve run–“

Littlefinger steepled his fingers. “One thing’s for certain – he’ll come find you. Maybe not the first day, maybe not the second, but he will. Once he’s burning with shame, and begging for forgiveness, you’ll be free to demand Winterfell as your right.”

"A promise with a dagger behind it."

"Precisely. You can tell him you need Winterfell because you’ve lost all faith in men, dear one. That your own brother betrayed your innocence. That you’ll never want to marry and you need a place to call home. That way, you can keep your options open.”

 _For you, no doubt_ , Sansa thought darkly, but she kept her own counsel. Littlefinger helped her devise a few questions she could use in different situations. To pull the worst confession from Jon. To do the most damage. She felt sick, even as she and Littlefinger played out their roles. But there was a certain soundness to Littlefinger’s plan. 

There were certain problems with it too, problems she mulled over as she stitched a doublet in her chambers later that night.

The Lord’s Chambers were spacious, and airy, large enough that she needed extra wood for her fire to keep warm after the sun went down. She loved how she had enough room to store her all of her sewing projects and supplies away neatly. She could keep what she needed for her latest project close at hand on one of her tables. The oak chest at the foot of bed held extra furs, and the tall, dark wardrobe against the far wall contained her dresses, gowns and cloaks with ease.

If Jon gave her Winterfell, where would he go? Littlefinger was right. The King in the North needed a castle. What would Jon be left with if Winterfell was hers? Would he have to roam with his army?

She picked another color of thread. She loved the time of night when she could sit in her chambers and think of nothing but the patterns on dresses and cloaks. 

 _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_.

Her mother and father had said it often enough. She knew, deep down, that Jon believed she was the Stark in Winterfell now. Jon had told her he'd never be a true Stark, no matter what the men in the hall had sworn about the blood that flowed through his veins.

The thing of it was, a part of her agreed with him. That day in the courtyard, she'd told him she thought him a Stark. He was her family, the piece that had come back to her. 

But there was something a bit - _other_ about Jon. There always had been, even when they were children.  He'd held himself apart from the rest. He was so different from bright Robb and sweet Bran. It made her wonder who his mother must have been. He favored father, it was true, but father would never have tried to save Rickon so recklessly or charged after Ramsay so ruthlessly.  
  
Jon reminded her of a banked fire. He was reserved, even shy, but when he loved someone, or something, a person, a cause, he burned with it. It was part of what drew people to him.

 _What draws you to him_ , a voice murmured, but she shushed it. She put her sewing aside, climbed into bed, and blew out the candle. She had a plan and she was resolved to put it into practice.

 ***

Sansa found though, to her surprise, that as the weeks went on, she had a natural reluctance to push Jon’s boundaries. She smiled and kept tight-lipped when Littlefinger asked her discreetly for news. But even she was worried at her inaction.

She’d worked up the courage to make a few gestures. She'd even made a half-hearted effort to kiss him when he'd tried to hide a wound from the training yard one morning. She’d trundled him off to his chambers and made sure to be near him. But in the end the pain in his eyes was too much for her. She'd fussed and dressed the cut for him, making him promise to be more careful.

Her best opportunities were when they sat together in her chambers. Jon had escorted her to her rooms one night and she'd asked him to stay awhile. Neither of them had wanted to break the habit after that.

In truth, she cherished the time they had together at night, once the rest of the castle had gone to sleep. They gradually grew more at ease with each other’s company as they fell into a routine.

She was certain, from the rapid pulse point at his neck, from the flush that crept over his face whenever she was close, that Jon wanted her. He was easy to read, like an open book or a map pinned to a table.

It made her wistful and it made her angry. Openness was weakness.

And yet – he didn’t grasp at her. Didn’t snap or get impatient, as other men might when confronted with a woman who frustrated them. Jon wasn’t placid, either. He had a temper, a temper she was helping him learn to control. In her chambers and elsewhere, he was nothing but good to her.

Which didn't mean he didn't sometimes drive her to her wits' end. The first fortnight after her meeting with Littlefinger was filled with interminable council meetings about protecting supply lines, the depletion of the castle's food stores, and petty disputes the lords had time to air now that the immediate danger had passed.

Jon tried to keep them focused on the threat to the North but it was a difficult task. During a lull in one of the council meetings, Sansa leaned close while the others muttered around them. 

"Stop scowling, Jon."

"I'm not scowling." Jon's frown deepened. "Besides, they're wrong."

 _If only I had a mirror_ , Sansa thought. "Whether they're wrong or right, you won't convince them by staring them down."

"What would you have me do? They can't see the danger–“ He was loud enough that Ser Davos gave them a worried glance. 

Sansa put a hand on his arm. "Careful, Jon. What would...well, what would father have done?"

Jon stilled. "He would have brought them around."

"By scowling?" Sansa kept her voice light.

Jon could be stubborn as a mule. Eventually, he sighed. "No, he wouldn't have. He'd hear them out."

"No matter how foolish they are."

Jon glanced at her. "You think they're foolish?"

"I do. But you won't win them over by telling them so. And your face is fearsome. They're not likely to talk, when their king is angry."

Jon's jaw worked. "Fine. I'll do my best."

As they resumed, he did do better. She'd only had to surreptitiously touch him once or twice, to calm him. No one in the room picked up on the signal they had. No one of course, except Littlefinger who gave her a slow, approving nod. 

She hadn't planned it, though. Hadn't touched Jon in any enticing way. She truly was trying to help both of them get through these sessions as smoothly as possible. Nevertheless, she gave Littlefinger the slightest inclination of her head. Better to keep him guessing. 

That night, when Jon came to her rooms, she shared the nicknames she'd made up at King's Landing to keep her from going out of her mind when she had to endure her own interminable, agonizing dinners with the Lannisters.

"Cersei, the Mad Queen."

Jon nodded. "That sounds right."

"Tyrion, the Imp. But he....he was good to me, Jon. He tried. I didn't give him the chance to know me better."

Jon poked at the logs in the hearth. "He seemed nice, on our way to the Wall. Though he was a bit priggish at the beginning. Then again, I was a sullen boy."

"You?" 

"Hush, Sansa." Jon was smiling now, and it did her heart good to see it. 

"And then Tommen...the Kitten Prince."

"Kittens?"

"He adored them. Kept five – five, Jon – in his room. You couldn't walk in without getting pounced on."

Jon smirked. "So no kittens here in your chambers then."

"No. I'm done with kittens, cats and lions." She considered. "Though there was that sweet white ball of fluff in the stables..."

Jon was listening closely, and Sansa paused. Jon really had given her everything she'd asked for. He'd bring her the kitten tomorrow, washed and groomed, if she said the word.

Everything except Winterfell – but then, she hadn't asked. And she wasn't doing a masterful job of carrying out her plan. 

"Don't get ideas, Jon. We'll make sure he's warm and well-fed. That way we'll have a good mouser later."

"All right."

He stayed with her a while longer before bidding her goodnight.

When she was younger, a silent companion would have been a burden. She’d delighted in gaiety, gossip and chatter.

But now she’d spent years pretending to be someone she wasn't. She’d suffered abuse and worse. Jon’s presence was a balm to her. As Jon sat by the fire, a profound quiet stole over the room. She noticed two stars outside her window for the first time, one faint, one bright.

When she looked over, Jon was staring at her with frank admiration. The intensity of it made her raise an eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean to – it’s just, the rooms, here, you look well in them. They suit you.”

He couldn't see that she was only in these rooms by his grace, that her hold on them was temporary.

But he smiled at her with such reverence that she couldn’t find it in herself to be angry.  She'd melted under his gaze, and smiled back.

***

The next night, Jon brought the letters from the rookery. 

"Do you open the scrolls before I read them?" There was amusement in Jon’s voice. He stood at the window, a letter from the Hornwoods in his hands – a letter whose contents Sansa had predicted perfectly. The snow was sparse outside. It was a welcome break from the ice storms.

Sansa put her needle down. A small smile played around her lips. "Wasn't the wax sealed?"

"It was. It's just – how do you know what each one is going to say, before you see it?"

"It's not that hard, Jon, you just have to think about how all the pieces fit together." 

"You're better at it than I was in the Watch. You might be better than Sam."

"Sam?"

"He was a friend of mine. At the Wall. He's at the Citadel now, studying to be a maester."

"You miss him."

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. "I do. He could see the pieces working together. Like you can." He extended the scroll to her. His hand was inches away. She skimmed the top of his hand with her fingertips. Jon flushed scarlet, frozen to the spot.

 _Now_ , she thought,  _now, pull him closer, draw him in_ – and still she only laughed and took the letter from him.

She was fairly certain she could break through Jon’s defenses. If she plied him with wine perhaps, or wore something revealing. She’d considered tears – tears would do the trick, she knew. Tears would make Jon take her in his arms and hold her close. A minute’s work to turn her mouth to his, to feign surprise, to “yield” as Jon took her –

And then for some reason her mind couldn’t complete the picture. She recoiled at the thought of brutality on Jon’s part.

 _Careful Sansa. There are no knights, or princes. Don’t make Jon into one_. He was only a man, like all the others, Sansa told herself firmly. Firmly enough that she almost believed it.

***

She met Littlefinger in the godswood that night. He enjoyed bringing her here, even though the snow was two feet high around them. Sansa leaned against the weirwood tree. She could just see the moon above her. The leaves were black silhouettes against the sky.

She wore her warmest cloak, lined with fur, and she was still shivering. Littlefinger showed no sign of being affected. He rarely did when it came to wind or food or weather. Only when it came to power, or to her.

She didn't like having Littlefinger in this sacred place, even though it was secluded and they wouldn't be overheard. She hadn't prayed to the old gods when she was little but Winterfell was the Stark's stronghold. The godswood was a symbol of that strength. Littlefinger did not belong here.

He loomed next to her, too close for comfort.

“Well, my dear? How are things progressing?”

"He doesn't seem to want me, Petyr. Or rather he does, but he won't give in to it." She left out her own hesitation for the time being.

Littlefinger tsked. "Odd, especially given your considerable charms." He gave her a piercing look.

“I haven’t wanted to risk too much.” Sometimes with Littlefinger a half-truth was better than an evasion. “I am making attempts. He's just not acting on them.”  
  
“Then you may have to be more forward, sweetling.”

“How can I? If I make too bold a move – won’t he think I wanted something to happen, after all? How can I expect him to beg for forgiveness if I lead him on?”  
  
Littlefinger chuckled. “When it comes to desire, there's a point of no return for every man, Sansa. Even if you start the encounter, by the end, a beast will take over. Haven't you found that to be true?”

Sansa remembered Ramsay and had her answer. She heard the tearing of fabric and her own sobs echoing right here in Winterfell, the night he–

An owl hooted in the forest, and brought her back to the present.

Littlefinger wouldn’t have the satisfaction of her tears.

“You’re right, Petyr.” Sansa inclined her head, and Littlefinger lapped up her praise like a cat with a bowl of cream.

“I do have a great deal of experience in these matters, my dear.” He reached for her, his eyes shining. She knew she had to allow this caress, as unwelcome as it was. The leather of his glove felt slimy and cold on her check.

“What should I do next?”   _Be_ _a sweet bird for him to train_. Sansa let him have his victory for now. He’d pay dearly for it later. She’d make sure of it.

Littlefinger smiled. "Expand your knowledge, sweetling. You've spied on him in his bedroom, I assume?"

"No, not yet." The thought hadn't occurred to her, but she couldn't let Littlefinger know that. 

"It seems a natural next step. Perhaps he's finding comfort elsewhere. Having his needs satisfied by another woman. See if you can learn more about what he likes. Then use it."

Sansa twisted her gloves together under her cloak as she walked with Littlefinger back to the castle. She told herself it was because spying made her nervous. It had nothing, nothing at all to do with the fact that her stomach roiled at the thought of seeing Jon with another woman.  

If Littlefinger was right – if men were no more than beasts at heart – she’d have to watch Jon hurt someone, and then figure out how to let him hurt her too.

Sansa pulled her cloak tighter against the brisk wind. The grey and white Stark banners flapped and snapped on Winterfell’s walls as they returned to the castle. Home. She wanted the safety of these walls, whole and complete, and _hers_.  

She’d been through nightmares beyond counting to get back here. A cold hand closed around her heart. She set her jaw. One more wound wouldn’t end her. Even if it was dealt by Jon himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Jon**

Jon was doing his best, his very best, to stay clear of Sansa. He tried to treat her properly, like a brother should. She'd helped him, in ways large and small, since they took back Winterfell. He relied on her counsel and looked forward to her laughter.

The times they sat together in her solar were a respite from the exhaustion of being king. The nights seemed to bring her comfort, and so he let himself believe nothing was amiss with those visits. He drew strength from them too. 

And he sorely needed that strength, to help him through the challenges of ruling. He still fought the urge to look behind him when Davos referred to him as the King in the North, as if Robb would be there, smiling, with his red scruff of a beard and bright blue eyes. Robb would have had some plan for handling Littlefinger.

Jon passed Littlefinger’s chambers each morning as he went to the training yard. He’d taken to leaving earlier and earlier to avoid meeting with him. This morning the sun hadn’t even started to rise as he walked down the corridor. The torches were the only source of light, throwing shadows on the stone walls.

Jon clenched his fist reflexively when he was next to Littlefinger’s door. Jon despised the man. He’d sold Sansa. Sold her to that monster, Ramsay. Jon growled faintly without knowing it. Outside, on a far hill, he felt Ghost pause in the waning dawn, hackles rising.

_Go. Hunt._

His breathing slowed as he felt Ghost reluctantly begin to stalk his prey again.

He was almost away from Littlefinger’s door when he heard an oily greeting.

“Your Grace. I had a few small things to bring to your attention. Might I steal a moment of your time before you start your day?”

Littlefinger’s salt-and-pepper beard was well-combed and his eyes danced. He had his usual smirk, the one that made Jon feel slow-witted and foolish.

_I should see him, for Sansa’s sake,_  he thought. Or agree to a time to see him later. He knew Littlefinger was a man to be handled with care, no matter how often he thought Longclaw could put a quick end to it.

“Two days from now, Lord Baelish." He could put the man off for that long. Being a king held a few benefits. Littlefinger wouldn’t dare question his timing.

Littlefinger gave a small nod. "Of course. Your Grace. Headed to the training yard? I saw you in fine form yesterday. And I certainly wasn't the only one. You had quite the crowd of admirers."

Jon didn't need to be reminded. The women who watched him train – some blatantly, some covertly – were bothersome, nothing more. There was only one woman who occupied his thoughts.

He’d tried to avoid the throng. He’d even found a sparring partner who’d prefer not to be gawked at either. Brienne had taken him up on his offer of early morning sessions.

Until they’d started attracting a crowd anyway. There was precious little privacy in a castle or a kingship, Jon was discovering. He and Brienne learned to tolerate it. No point in trying to pick another time. He’d be watched wherever he went.  

Littlefinger peered down the corridor to Jon’s room. He gave Jon a side-long glance.

"Pardon my prying, but perhaps you would be better suited to the Lord’s Chambers, Your Grace? Think on it, if you would. They befit a king. I’m sure Lady Sansa would agree."

Jon’s temper flared.

_Don’t say her name. Don’t speak of her. Don’t touch her_.

He cleared his throat. "Good morning, Lord Baelish." Littlefinger took it for the dismissal that it was and slunk back into his rooms.

His fist clenched again as he walked away. He tried to stop the rage that came upon him. But soon there was a faint red mist in front of his eyes. He knew dimly that Ghost had made a kill. His anger was partly fueled by the wolf’s savage joy at tearing into a deer’s throat.

The clean, cold air as he stepped outside helped to clear his head, but only a little. The training yard was a welcome, familiar sight, with its wooden fence and hard-packed dirt. He swung open the gate. Brienne looked up as the hinges squeaked. No gawkers at the fence yet, thank the gods. The familiar smell of leather and steel cooled his blood slightly.

Brienne stood and swept her blonde hair away from her face. Jon heard the slight rasp of her armor.

“Is all well, Jon?”

He’d convinced her not to call him King when they trained.

It had, ironically, taken pulling that very rank to get her to agree.

He only nodded. His cold breath clouded in the air. Brienne tilted her head as if to say  _suit yourself_ , and settled into a fighting stance.

Jon appreciated how Brienne never spared him. She didn’t check her blows or give him any leeway. She used every inch of her extra reach to her full advantage. Which meant Jon could get lost in the fight. He could forget everything except the ringing of swords and the need to thrust, parry, pivot, lunge until he was drenched with sweat and either he or Brienne yielded.

This morning, though, his mind kept pulling him back to Littlefinger’s smirk. As he and Brienne circled each other, Littlefinger was in front of him. Littlefinger, who poisoned the well with his whisperings and scheming. Littlefinger, who maybe, just maybe, was the man Sansa cared for.

_Don’t say her name._

Brienne lunged, putting all her weight into a downward blow, but Jon dodged. Longclaw sang in the air as their swords met.

_Don’t speak of her._

Brienne pressed him back but Jon pivoted and broke her hold. The red mist in front of his eyes was heavy now.

He didn’t think, just reacted, when Brienne left her flank open. He swung his sword in a fast, powerful arc, imagining he was slicing through Littlefinger himself, through chest and blood and bone.

_Don’t touch her_.

He scored a blow on Brienne’s shoulder, strong enough to make her stumble on her feet. A blow that would have killed Littlefinger with ease. They broke apart.

The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, filling the yard with faint grey light. Women had started to linger by the yard and Jon sighed. He tried to shake the red mist free. The rage seemed to be easing. He took a few deep, cold breaths. Perhaps Ghost was finally done with his feast.

He lifted his chin at Brienne, a silent  _are you ready?_

She gave him a withering look. He suppressed a smile. Jon tipped his sword and he and Brienne started again. The small crowd started to murmur.

The fighting was easier now, more fluid, as the sun came up and the rage left him. He and Brienne had reached another draw when he caught the glint of fiery copper hair out of the corner of his eye.

_Sansa_. She was gliding past the yard, her head bent with Davos, and his heart stuck in his throat.

He heard a solid  _thump_  and pain lanced through his arm. He’d broken his concentration, and Brienne rightly made him pay for it. Her sword had cut partway through the armor.

“Jon–“ Brienne had a look of slight consternation on her face.

“It’s all right. My fault. Well fought.” He took his leave of her, sliding Longclaw into his scabbard. He ignored the exclamations and offers of help from the onlookers. He walked stiffly back to the castle.

It wasn’t the worst blow he’d received in a training yard, but it had Brienne’s skill and strength behind it. His arm throbbed, and he could feel blood welling up under the armor.

He paused at the doorway to the courtyard once he was alone. He leaned on the frame, gripping the wood. Sansa found him there. She was flushed and out of breath, as if she'd come running.

“Jon! Are you hurt? Did Brienne do this to you?" Her beautiful blue eyes were fierce.   
  
Jon pushed away from the doorframe. He tried to smile. "I did it to myself, serves me right, I let my guard down,"  _I was staring at you._  
  
"Let me help you." With a touch of her mother's imperious tone, she packed him off to his chambers. His room, really - he’d taken only a small bedroom for himself. The room had a washbasin, a table with one chair and a plain, narrow bed. It was a tight fit for both of them. She gathered a bowl of water, some muslin and some thread and ushered him onto his straw mattress before he understood what she meant to do.

She wrung out the muslin. "Please, let me clean it for you."

He panicked at the thought of her being so near. He tried to wave her off.

"One more scar will hardly matter." He forced himself to sound cheerful. He longed to take the hurt and worry out of her eyes.  
  
“They all matter, Jon," she said, and he thought there might be something else behind her words. "Let me see."  
  
He was sweating and in pain. She was far too close. He knew, with a sinking stomach, that he was going to say yes. He nodded.

She held out her hand. Hesitantly, he gave her his arm. It was like every other time he touched her – it felt like stepping into a fast-flowing river. One that could sweep him away, and in which he could happily drown. 

He made a small sound as her fingers brushed his skin. She mistook the noise for discomfort.

She dabbed the cloth on his brow and bent close to his face. Her cheeks were still flushed.

"Do you need anything, for the pain?" Her voice was soft and low and sweet.

_I need to be further away from you or I'll drown in this river. I'll rest my head on your shoulder and you'll know that I love you. That I need you, in ways a brother shouldn't_.

He shook his head and she eventually bent over his arm. For a brief moment she was preoccupied. That was a relief, except that her hair brushed his nose. So he gave in and inhaled her scent. Lemons and lavender. His head was swimming as she began to sew.

The sting of the needle helped clear his mind. "You're good at this," he murmured.   
  
"Like sewing a dress," she said, but he could see her hands shaking slightly. "Just – promise me, Jon, that you'll be more careful."

He didn’t want to be a burden to her. "I promise, Sansa."

She'd kissed his forehead before she left and he held his breath, too afraid to speak, until she left the room. 

***

He knew when he visited her that night he’d need a distraction of some kind, a way of keeping her at a distance. He couldn’t afford to be so close to her twice in one day. So he stopped by the rookery first.

The crows in their cages squawked at him when he opened the door. He fed them a few kernels of corn. He stroked the beak of one dark bird idly as he picked up the stack of letters. The room held the aroma of parchment and straw, and he was reminded of Maester Luwin. The old man used to look right at home here sitting at the long table, with its comfortable disarray of paper and wax. He wished Maester Luwin was still alive, too.

In the end, the letters didn’t do him as much good as he’d hoped. The evening started well. Sansa proved to be Sam’s equal and more when it came to guessing what had been written in each scroll before the wax was sealed.

Then he’d held a letter out to her, carelessly, coming within inches of touching her. She’d closed the distance and he’d been too clumsy to pull his hand away. He could feel the blood rush to his cheeks as she touched him. Time seemed to stand still.

She saved them both by breaking away and laughing, and he was able to take his leave soon after that. With each step he took back to his room, he berated himself for holding her hand.

***

Jon closed his door behind him. He made his way to the washbasin in the scant space between his mattress and the hearth. He splashed his face and his neck with cold water. He patted himself dry, hoping to dispel some of the heat from his visit with Sansa.

He stowed away his shirt and built up the fire. A few sparks struck the hearthstones and vanished. The fire burned low, but he didn’t mind. He’d been a little too warm, ever since they came back from Castle Black. Ever since Melisandre had ushered him back from the dead. 

Over the past several weeks, he’d fielded question after question about why he’d taken this meager accommodation for his own and given Sansa the Lord’s Chambers. Chambers that were “rightfully his,” according to some lords, or “fit for a king,” according to the snake that was Littlefinger, or “just...the way of things” according to patient, duty-bound Brienne.

He had no ready answer. In truth, it was selfish of him. He simply liked to see her there, in the great wide rooms with high ceilings. Peace settled in his heart when she sat at the table in front of the large hearth, with her sewing spread around her. He liked how fine she looked, his lady, at home, safe in Winterfell. She fit the rooms like a hand to a glove. They belonged to her and she belonged in them.

She’d seen him staring once and raised an eyebrow, a unspoken question. He was grateful for the secret language they’d started to develop, a quick shake of a head or her warning touch on his shoulder. Partly because he was awful with words and always had been. He needed to understand the feel of things before he could talk about them.

The mood of a council meeting room. The temperament of wildlings around a campfire.

The silent music that was Sansa, safe and sound in the Lord's Chambers, as safe as he could make her.

And still, that night, words had failed him. He’d only ducked his head and said the rooms suited her. It must not have been too bad of an answer, for a smile had formed quickly on her lips and then been whisked away.

He rose. There was a lie at the center of the reason for Sansa staying in the Lord’s Chambers, a lie Littlefinger knew too well. It was why he didn’t look too closely at the bed with the four oak posts that Sansa slept in, where Lord and Lady Stark used to retire.

Sansa wasn’t his lady. Never could be. No matter how often he wished it. As if wishing could make it less wrong, or more true.

He loved her. Wanted her as a wife, as sick as that was.

He couldn’t get her out of his head, his gut, his heart. He knew he didn’t hide it well. Sansa was generous enough to pretend not to notice. It had been this way every day since he’d kissed her forehead. That day, on the castle walls, he’d opened his heart without knowing it. He’d been adrift ever since.

He dreamed of what it might be like, to wake with her in that four-postered bed. To have a few moments in the morning with her. She’d wake, sleepy and smiling, and he’d pull her closer for a kiss. His beautiful northern wife, revered by him and his men. The Lady of Winterfell. His Queen.

But the dream was hollow at its core. He couldn’t wed her and he shouldn’t even entertain the thought. There was something wrong with him, some sick impulse that made him desire his half-sister.

Worse, he couldn’t keep them both in Winterfell forever. He was too much of a coward to ask Sansa for her help, because asking the question meant acknowledging she might have to leave. He’d rather leave himself.

He couldn't bear it.

He rested his hand on the cord of his breeches, frustrated. He couldn’t wish away what he was about to do next. But there was no way around it. He untied the knot. Sansa had her hair down tonight, and that was the first image that swam in front of his eyelids as he took his cock in his hand. The way her hair fell around her face. How she tucked it behind her ear. How he wished he could do the same, and more.

The first stroke of his palm left him gasping. He was ready soon, so soon, it was this way each and every time after he visited her.

He’d done this at the Wall often enough, seeing vague images of Ros as he peaked fast, like a green boy, alone at night. Later it had been Ygritte, desire tinged with sadness. Now - Sansa. Sansa. Sansa. It was chafing to be near her.

But in this room he wasn’t the King in the North. No one could bear witness to his shame. So he let himself go. Let himself imagine resting a hand on her knee at her table where they sometimes talked. The first moment his lips would touch hers.

He shifted to get a better grip, thankful for the relative cover of night.

Her lips would be soft, so soft, and her eyes would close as he leaned in. He could touch her gently, he knew he could, from the few times Ygritte had tolerated it, and he preferred it that way. Sansa deserved gentleness, kindness, sweetness, pleasure and gods help him but he wanted to be the man to give it to her.

He groaned as he picked up the pace, squeezing his cock at the tip.

He gave into his desire. Lost himself in her heat and scent. He braced his other hand on the cool stone, fully into it now. How he’d lay her down on the bed, how he’d kiss her soft and deep, taking his time, doing it right, until they were both breathless. She’d be dappled copper and silver in the firelight. Her eyelashes would be fine against her cheek. He’d bring out warmth and happiness in her eyes.

He ached to hear her laugh with delight in bed. She’d never have to beg him, not once, he’d do anything she asked and gladly. His hand on the wall flexed as he imagined caressing her teats, kneading them in his hands, lapping and sucking at her. He’d slide his hands over the lush curve of her hips, brushing his lips over the soft swell of her stomach before kissing the thatch of hair between her legs.

He didn’t know what to make of it, but when he peaked it was usually from imagining lavishing attention on her cunt, rather than thrusting into her.

He shuddered in his hand, stroking faster now, imagining her taste on his tongue. How her thighs would grip him and the sounds she’d make as he made love to her. He was panting, close to the edge. How she’d look with her head tipped back and how she’d flush and moan and - he was spasming, spilling into his hand, calling out her name in the one place he was free to do so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sansa**

Sansa worried her thread between her fingers as she glanced at Jon that night. It was a struggle to behave naturally this evening, knowing what she was about to do when Jon left.

Jon looked content as he sat whittling a knife handle next to the fire. Sometimes she had the urge to ask if she could comb his hair. It would be a wonderful way to get closer to him. But she couldn't make herself ask because… because she genuinely wanted to. She wanted to know what his hair would feel like as she brushed through his dark locks. Whether he’d rest his head against her leg and gaze up at her, and smile. 

And… she didn't want to follow that up with a kiss and a threat. 

 _Maybe a kiss_. She hushed that voice. She had a plan. She was intent on carrying it out. Seduction. Shame. A dagger at his throat.

Winterfell, hers. 

Jon was looking at her oddly.

She cleared her throat. "Who's the knife for?"

"Brienne. I broke one of hers in the training yard." He frowned. "And no matter what I do, she won't let me give her a new one."

"But if you make her one..."

The corner of Jon's mouth quirked. "I think she might accept it."

"Might feel like she  _has_  to accept it." Sansa smiled despite herself. "Well done, Jon. Though I'm sure she doesn't expect it of you. Kings don't normally whittle weapons for their subjects."

Jon was quiet for a long time. "It gives me something to do, Sansa," he said finally. "Something that isn't as large as deciding on a plan of attack or denying a petition. Something that's–“

"Just useful," she finished. She smoothed out the doublet she was stitching. "I know what you mean. Sewing is the same for me."

Jon gave her a lop-sided smile. Sansa knew him well enough now that she could see he was working up the nerve to say something significant. She wished he wouldn't. Tonight needed to be ordinary. What she planned to do later was strange enough on its own. 

"I've never really thanked you," he said. "For...for this. For these nights. With you." His dark eyes held so much kindness that warmth bloomed in her chest.

"It's nothing, Jon. You keep me company."

"Aye. Even if I don't do it well." He glanced away to the fire. That was better. That made it easier. "I'd like – I'd like to think we keep each other company."

Sansa swallowed. There was a lump in her throat. "We do, Jon," she said in a small voice. "I'd miss you, if you stayed away."

Damn, damn, damn. It could have been a beautiful move in her game. Instead, it was the truth. 

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'd – I should let you get some sleep."

Sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. "Yes, yes, of course. I'll – I'll see you tomorrow morning, Jon." Now he had her stammering. "Good night, Jon."

"Good night, Sansa."

She let out a sigh as the door closed. She put away her sewing carefully, laying out Jon's doublet so she could pick up the direwolf where she left off. She waited until the moon cleared her window, and set off for Jon's room. Littlefinger had explained to her how to crack the lock and ease the door open so that she could see in without Jon noticing. 

She snuck down the hall on slippered feet. When she arrived at Jon's door, she repeated the motions Littlefinger had shown her. Sure enough, a crack appeared in the doorframe, enough for her to see through.

Jon was shirtless in the firelight. She shivered, even though the corridor was warm. There was no one with Jon, and she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

Sansa had steeled herself for a woman in Jon's bed. She’d told herself it would be a boon. She'd gather more information that way, after all. She'd ignored the fear that shot through her at the idea of watching Jon with someone else. At seeing Jon – who watched out for her, and took care of her – turn into just another man consumed by lust.

She was about to turn away when she saw Jon brace his arm on the wall, and undo the cord of his breeches. His half-hard cock sprang free, and she gasped as he took himself in his hand.

She couldn’t look away now, she couldn’t, even though she could see what a private moment this was for him. If she was to carry through with her plan, she had to watch.

An unfamiliar heat flowed through her. She could take the time to admire him, the firelight playing over the muscles in his strong shoulders. The carried the weight of Longclaw, the weight of ruling, the weight of a kingship. His cock was hard now, long and red and curved in his palm. He groaned and his eyes slid shut.

He was...pleasuring himself, she supposed. She’d heard Littlefinger mention it. She’d heard soldiers joke it was a poor substitute for the feel of a woman around you.

Jon was standing in profile to her, his face a little turned away. She could make out his full, parted lips, and dark beard.

A curious thing, a man’s denial of his own desire. She’d never witnessed it before. She knew Jon had a lover among the Free Folk. Was that who he thinking about, as he stroked himself?

Why wouldn’t he take a woman? There were many on offer, she thought with a trace of bitterness. Women who were either grasping to be queen or who were simply naturally flirtatious.

Or was it her he thought of? Sansa’s breath hitched. Was he ashamed? Either way, Jon would rather do this – or he didn’t feel he had a choice.

A thin sheen of sweat covered his back. She could just make out his harsh breathing from the doorway. His hair was down and it made him look wilder. She wanted to tame his black curls. His face was slack, soft. He was somewhere far away, for certain. A tiny part of her wished she could join him.

There was something foul in her, no doubt, some trace left behind from Ramsay, that made her pulse race as she watched her half-brother.

His lips were moving in a prayer, an incantation, and she felt a tremor go through her. His fingers flexed on the wall. She felt a trickle of wetness run down her thigh, and it startled her. But she was mesmerized by his quick, desperate motions. He groaned, and his rhythm started to stutter.

 He was thrusting into his hand now. She could see his face flush as some kind of tension grew inside him. There was a tension in her too. She pressed closer to the door, a little reckless, she needed to be careful.

 Jon was quivering, and she saw the tip of his tongue as he licked his lips. She was restless, itching in her own skin. She wished...she wished...

She felt a throb between her legs as Jon said “Sansa, Sansa, please,” in a rough, wrecked whisper. She let out a small moan as he spilled into his hand.

The sound brought her back to reality. She picked up her skirts and ran back to her rooms.

Once she’d shut and bolted her door, she undressed and slipped into bed. But sleep was elusive. She tossed and twisted in her sheets, feeling like her skin was too tight.

When she tried to close her eyes, images of Jon in the firelight floated before her. She saw the eager motion of his hand, how he’d seemed to want to make the moment last, even as he was unable to stop.

And she heard her name echo over and over. How he’d drawn out the syllables as he peaked. He must have been imagining her, imagining both of them...

The very idea should repulse her.

Instead, she wished she could join him, to...she wasn’t sure, what she wanted next. She found it much harder than she expected, to keep herself from returning to his room. It was quite some time before she could rest.

In the morning, the sunlight fell in golden shafts across her bed furs. The blue sky she glimpsed through the window made last night seem more like a dream. She gathered her composure. There was no place for her own desire here. It was time.

***

The following night, after Jon had left, Sansa waited once again until the moon cleared her window before following him. She'd been strung tight all day, imagining this moment. She knew she had to stay focused on her goal – watching Jon in an indiscretion, then getting clean away. She was tingling with anticipation though, at the thought of seeing him touch himself. 

Her nerves were singing when she came to his door. She had to time this right. She needed to make her move when his own desire would outweigh any shame he might feel.

He undid his breeches and she felt the same heat as before. Why did it excite her, to know he was imagining her as he touched himself?

When his eyes slid shut and his movements quickened, she didn’t give herself time to think. She just slipped between him and the wall.

“Sansa–“ Jon’s eyes flew open and she could see the whites around the edges. His pupils were blown. She took his cock in her hand.

She softened her expression. “Jon, I heard you say my name the other night. Let me stay.  I feel the same way you do.”

It was supposed to be a lie. It was supposed to be a trick. But while she wasn’t quite sure if she felt the same way he did, she was dizzy and off-kilter and very, very worried he'd tell her to stop. 

He let out a long, low groan. He was hot and heavy in her hand when she started to stroke him. He looked at her like she was the sun and stars together, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

This close, she could see the beads of sweat on his hairline. There were darker flecks of grey in his eyes too. She saw lust there and something else, something deeper.

“Gods, it’s really you,” he rasped.

“Who else, Jon?” She was supposed to stay on top of this situation, to extract every confession she could, but the question came out naturally.

“I just–“ he lost his purchase on the wall and scrabbled to find it again, he hadn’t touched her, not once, not yet “–think about you every night, Sansa.”

She trembled at hearing her name from his lips again. The susurration of his breath, the rough, low burr of his voice, the intimate way he said it, as if it was a plea...

“You imagine us?”

He was thrusting into her hand now. This was the moment where she had expected the fear to begin. This was where she had been scared she’d lose control. That the beast would take over. That Jon would take her and use her, like men did.

Instead he only nodded. He looked young and vulnerable, that soft slackness flickering on his face. She felt the power shift around her. She was in charge of this encounter. She stroked him faster and had the wild urge to take him in her mouth. He bucked into her hand, panting. 

“Sansa, sweet girl wait– “

The sense of power was too strong, too heady, and she didn’t stop.

“Please, I can’t– _ah!_ “ He shuddered as he peaked, spilling on her gown. He was shaking, faint, undone, and she wanted to wrap her arms around him.

He gestured weakly, a dazed look on his face. “Your – your dress, I’m sorry, I didn’t–“

It struck her that he would care about something so small. It was only a wet stain. She’d lived through so much worse. But the furrow that creased his brow was as deep as when he considered matters of great consequence.

_Maybe he thinks this is a matter of great consequence too._

“Do you regret this?” The question was part of the plan, too, but the plaintiveness in her tone wasn’t. She didn’t want him to pull away. She didn’t want to lose this secret closeness they’d created together.

He swallowed, still catching his breath.

“No, I can’t, love, if you don't.” His fingertips grazed her chin and that one brief touch made her feel feverish. “I can’t, gods help me but I can’t.”

She was still burning from the light skim of his fingers. She saw the same two stars in the window above his bed, one faint, one bright.

Littlefinger wouldn’t dictate all the steps of this dance. He didn’t need to know, what she and Jon did, here in his room. Openness was weakness, but weakness could hide under a blanket of darkness.

She brushed his sweat-damp hair from his face and he leaned into her. She had a growing feeling that Jon might be...good to her here too, where others had only caused her pain. As he stood in front of her, she made the choice to find out.

“W-would you kiss me, Jon?”

She half-expected to be devoured. Instead he brought his hand to her cheek. He hesitated a moment, even though she still had his cock in her hand.

“Are you sure?”

“You’re naked as your nameday and you’re asking me if I’m sure?”

“Yes.” He was earnest and serious and she loved him for it.

“I’m – I’m sure, Jon.”

He kissed her forehead. “This is when it all started, as soon as I kissed you, Sansa.” There it was again, her name like a prayer on his lips.  She relaxed, and gave in to the needs of her own heart.

“Then kiss me again, Jon.”  She kept her hand loosely around his cock as a reminder that she set the rules here. His cock hardened again but his kisses were as soft as falling rain, as soft as the kind she’d imagined from knights and princes.

She’d never been kissed like this. Not once, and now it was Jon, Jon who touched her as if nothing else existed. He was brave. He'd risked his army and his life for her. He was strong. She’d seen him advance on Ramsay like on oncoming storm. Now she knew he was gentle, too.

She writhed as he kissed her, felt her blood singing a new song. He was unraveling her with just the touch of his lips, with his hand on her hip. She longed to know what he imagined now. 

“Are you inside me, when you touch yourself?”

He moaned, and his cock twitched in her hand

“Sansa, sweet girl, have mercy.”

He was hoarse. He rested his forehead on hers and she felt his hot breath ghost over her neck. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

How could she undo him like this, a warrior who men followed into battle? How could he beg her for mercy and mean it? Littlefinger had been right, about how easy this would ultimately be, how effortless. What she hadn’t expected was the constriction in her heart at being shown so much tenderness. At being called  _sweet girl_  and  _love_  by Jon.

“Tonight – were you?”

He traced the shell of her ear with his lips. She tipped her head back, and tentatively rested a hand on his shoulder. His light caress built a fire in her veins.  She could feel the warmth of his skin and she caught the scent she’d always been curious about. Now she knew it was pine, and another note that was all Jon.

"No," he murmured. “Tonight I was between your legs.”

She huffed out a laugh. Her stomach sank a little, at how alike men were. “Well, yes.”

“No. No. Not what–“

He drew her in for a long kiss, cupping the back of her head. She parted her lips. When he slid his tongue into her mouth, she couldn’t help the small noise that escaped her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and the tender way he pulled her closer made her whimper. Heat coiled in her belly with every move he made.

He pulled back finally, leaving them both panting.

“Not what you think.”

There was a slight smile at the corner of his lips. His dark eyes were warm. He fumbled with words, as he usually did. But Sansa was learning that Jon was far better at touching her than talking to her.

And now she was curious.

“How many ways are there?”

“My mouth,” he whispered.

Sansa felt light-headed. “Your mouth?”

He licked his lips as if he could already taste her.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

She was supposed to seduce him and then run away. Act ashamed.

To make him feel guilty, and snare him in a net of his own honorable making.

“Show me,” she said instead, taking a corner of the world for herself, and he dropped to his knees.

It felt so right, so very right when he pushed her back against the wall. He bunched up her skirt, fully naked as she was fully dressed.

When his mouth was on her she forgot everything but the feel of his lips. She was wet and eager and pushed like a wanton, straining for something just out of reach. There was a wave building that she let herself ride, and a sweet, bright spark right at the point of Jon's lips, where he was sucking and licking.

He slipped his hands up her thighs, and held her to his mouth. His strong grip helped ground her, and she gave in to the sharp fire of sensation at her core.

“Please, yes, like that– “

She wasn’t even sure what she was asking or where he was taking her. She only knew that she trusted him. He hummed and she could feel it reverberate through her whole body, all the way to her fingertips.

She was pushing against his tongue, hard enough that she was afraid he'd have to let go.

But he only held her tighter, stroking her skin. It felt so good, so hot and desperate and different than any other time a man had touched her.

She dropped her head back against the wall when Jon slipped a finger inside her. This,  _this_  was what he’d wanted to show her, this hot pulse that made her cry out with pleasure. She gripped the stone as sweet contractions overtook her.  Sansa shattered and broke apart, calling out Jon’s name shamelessly as she rocked against him.

************************************

**Littlefinger**

Littlefinger was filled with rage as he watched from the hall. His beautiful girl was letting herself be soiled by that bastard’s hands. Sansa had understood the plan, of that he was certain. So why was she still in the room? Why hadn’t she run?

_She likes it._

She moaned again, as she bucked into Jon’s mouth.  _More than likes it._  He stroked his cock through his breeches sullenly as he watched his sweet flower peak for that bastard boy. He clenched his teeth when he heard “Jon, gods, don’t stop–“

A sick feeling flowed through his veins. It was the same vicious anger he’d felt the first time he’d seen Cat touch Brandon after their duel. Only a week later, when his wound was still raw and jagged, he’d watched Catelyn fall into Brandon’s arms. He’d seen her tilt her face up for a kiss and he knew he’d lost her.

This love clawed at him just as Cat’s love for the wrong man had. He was filled with a deep rage. The scene before him was like a thorn piercing his heart. He felt thrown back to his earliest days, when all he had was a small patch of land and a grasping ambition.  _Plot. Plot_.

Love, real love between Sansa and Jon could only cause chaos.

And chaos was a ladder he knew how to climb. 


End file.
